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My life is simple—an open mind
full of empty space. I fly
from the deeper meaning poets see
for my thoughts unwind
into echoes and nothings. Why
then should there be more to me?

Once, in a dream, my father looked up to find
his children on a mountaintop. I
led them—dancing on the edge, while he
screamed and watched us, spinning blind.
Six thoughtless shades against the sky
who never wondered in their glee
how low they would descend.

Today, I feel my word-shapes intertwined—
spinning, shielding, web and warden of my
life. For now I crouch, small and sweet and deadly
waiting for some foe or friend to wind
in my web. Am I a spider or a flutterby?
Cocooned or soaring, caught or free?

I’m nothing—no one. Confined.
Ahead of me, the dance is surrounded by
fog. No choices, no place to turn and flee
I just wish I could see behind
my partner, he’s leaping high
higher, highest. Off the edge, gracefully.
I wait, poised—to some end.